


A Priori

by Quoshara, speakmefair



Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas
Genre: Black Widow - Freeform, Gen, Knives, Snark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-09
Updated: 2012-09-09
Packaged: 2017-11-13 21:04:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/507703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quoshara/pseuds/Quoshara, https://archiveofourown.org/users/speakmefair/pseuds/speakmefair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Porthos is not dating a black widow, Athos is never hungover and, sadly, Aramis never gets to use his knives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Priori

It was, Athos supposed, partly his own fault. Oh, not the sword play, nor the argument that got them stuck once again on all night guard duty, but the fact that he had allowed himself to become friends with two miscreants like Aramis and Porthos. 

Really, he should have known better from the start. From the moment that big hulk, Porthos, had tripped over him the first time, then bodily picked him up and dusted off his clothes with one none-too-gentle hand it should have been obvious that this was not someone that a gentleman should go out of his way to associate with.

Or the first time he met Aramis, eyes so full of youth and intensity that it burned through him like the flame of one of the Blessed Martyrs scorned by too many. He should have known then that the younger man was no fit companion for him, was no-one that anyone who simply wanted to escape from his former life should take up with. He was too much of a reminder and too very far from what Athos had once known, all at once.

His only excuse, then and now, was that he must have been drunk.

It was, to be fair, more than often true, so it was an excuse that was bound to be generally accepted, if not approved of, and since no-one seemed capable of telling the difference between his actions under the influence of too much sobriety and those after an equal degree of wine, it was also one which he could use with impunity at any given moment.

He was, however, beginning to suspect that it was wearing rather thin with the Captain, and that he would have to think of something rather more convincing the next time they all managed to get on the Cardinal's bad side than a shrug and 'there was wine'. Mostly because that didn't work as an excuse for anyone else — Aramis never got drunk enough for his outward demeanour to seem altered, and Porthos tended at that particular stage of inebriation to be more somnolent than belligerent, so it left his companions in bad odour fighting for their own excuses, and that, too, verged on the ungentlemanly.

Sometimes, Athos wondered why he had ever believed it to be a formative plan to _join_ the Musketeers, let alone allow two others of that illustrious company to become so much as his near acquaintances.

(They might term it friendship, but he was sure he felt nothing of the kind, only a faint and rather wearing sense of responsibility for them that was remarkably easy to set aside after the second bottle.)

"My feet hurt," Porthos groused, from beside the postern that he had claimed as his post. "And I was supposed to be meeting Martine for a late supper. You two are definitely not an acceptable substitute."

Aramis, of course, did not deign to respond to Porthos's grumbling. He seldom did when a female name was mentioned. Porthos's long line of lovely but older women was almost a standing joke by this point, and Aramis claimed he was no longer able to keep up with who was who, or possibly whom, and that he wanted to try to keep up even less and needed at least three bottles of wine in under half an hour to, in fact, begin to contemplate it.

Athos, unfortunately for his patchy memory, which had recently developed new ways of inconveniencing him, remembered most of that verbatim.

"Not," Porthos repeated, obviously under the delusion that they hadn't heard him, rather than having come to the more sane conclusion that they were ignoring him, "acceptable."

He kicked Aramis's ankle. Aramis sighed.

"Quite right," he said obligingly, thus prodded, and then, because he was congenitally incapable of resisting the opportunity to poke back, especially, or perhaps particularly, when it was Porthos, "Rather like your face."

Athos could no more contain his snort of amusement than he could, moments later, keep from holding Porthos back when he decided their dear friend Aramis needed a good pummelling for his all-too-sharp tongue. Nor did he refrain, ten minutes after that, from rolling Aramis down the hill for turning that same sharp tongue in his own direction.

Perhaps this, then, was what had formed their friendship — bickering, teasing and a deep seated trust in each other that went far beyond differences or age or even class. It was something that all the Musketeers had to some extent, what made them what they were, but none so much as they. And somehow, most especially, Aramis and Athos seemed to fit, to fit together in ways that neither had ever had with anyone else.

But, rather like his sense of vague responsibility, that was something which Athos rarely considered and, as such, was a thought easily quelled. He had, after all, no need for anyone to fit with him, nor did he need to match another as a brother-in-arms. He was content with watching Aramis fit himself awkwardly to Porthos's rare moments of insight and more frequent moments of astounding obliviousness, and allowed — or perhaps, more honestly, forced — the wine to remove all considerations that perhaps if he only permitted himself to lower one or two of his barriers, there would be no such deliberation involved.

But no. He was, if not happier to be remote, at least safer; to be always at one remove, no matter what pleasantries he might indulge in or even feel, was what he had long since determined would be his refuge, and he was unwilling to leave that self-created haven for the sake of Aramis's regard.

"Martine was going to cook for me, with her own two hands."

"A fate you have, luckily, escaped," Athos shook his head and slid down the wall, taking a seat on the stony ground. "Martine is thin as a blade. If she does much of her own cooking that doesn't speak well of it."

"Athos!"

"Porthos!" Athos said with just as much fervour.

"This bush has _thorns_ ," came Aramis's voice from the bottom of the hill, with decidedly more petulance but equal fervour.

"Fascinating," Athos called back, feeling more cheerful. "And why must we be informed of this?"

"Because I am _in it_ ," came the reply, the voice leaving petulance in favour of more familiar tones of I-am-about-to-turn-you-into-a-rug. "And I am in it because you _pushed_ me into it. Ergo — it is all your fault and I shall make you _suffer_."

"Through whining," Porthos called back happily, and grinned at Athos, who put his hand over his face and shook his head, very slowly. "Wrong answer?" he whispered loudly enough to wake the dead, and Athos turned his headshake into an equally slow and vehement nod.

"I'm quite stuck," Aramis continued.

"Yes, Aramis, you said the bush had thorns," Athos sighed. "We understand this."

"No... I mean actually stuck," Aramis called back up the hill. "I'm caught on something."

"Of course you are," Athos just shook his head. "You stay here, Porthos, and I'll get our shining star out of the shrubbery."

"I will resent that comment _after_ I get free," Aramis said when Athos got close enough for normal conversation.

Athos was dismally sure that he would, and was equally sure that he would not enjoy whatever form the resentment took.

The being stuck, he noticed, after some joint ineffectual tugging, was rather thorough.

"I think," he said with a faint wince, because no-one knew where Aramis's pay vanished to, but vanish it most certainly did, and the expense of a new outfit was not one that anybody bore willingly even when in funds, "I'm going to have to cut you out."

Aramis just sighed. "Of course you are," he said eventually, and then, "Wait, not with your sword, there's a knife in my boot."

Of course there was. "Left or right?"

"Both, obviously," said Aramis, with not so faint undertones of 'you stupid bastard'.

"Ah," said Athos, and began the retrieval-and-cutting process as delicately as possible, which wasn't very, as the thorns had done rather a good job on tangling _through_ both doublet and shirt-sleeve in many, many places. He was beginning to feel slightly guilty.

"Humpf," Aramis looked down at his attire, twisting half around to survey his back. "And now the worry is, do I thank you for unpinning me, or thrash you for being the cause of the whole event."

"I know which one I'd choose," Porthos's voice drifted down to them from the top of the hill.

"Ah yes, priorities," said Aramis rather nastily, and headed towards the source of all his woes. "Thank you, Porthos, as always, for clearing the path of my decisions for me."

Athos looked down at the knife in his hand and wondered just how many more Aramis had on his person, whether he should bother asking, and if it were actually possible to disarm the man.

He suspected the answer to all of those was, quite simply, 'no'. Including the one that should have been a number.

[ ](http://s48.photobucket.com/albums/f225/Gemeralda/Musketeers/?action=view&current=DIVIDER.png)

What with vengeance duly wreaked, fund-raising for a replacement outfit (or at least parts of an outfit that would render Aramis respectable once more), and the Captain to be placated on a daily basis thanks to the inopportune events which generally surrounded the first two problems, the subject of Martine and her culinary skills — or lack thereof — were in abeyance for what Athos was to realise in retrospect was a blissful week of comparative silence.

Silence broken by, of all things, the sound of slightly off-key whistling.

"Please. Desist!" Aramis commanded, giving Porthos a look that had quelled lesser men. 

Porthos merely smirked, and gave a final shrill blast before pausing before the room's tiny glass to give his collar a final tug.

Athos looked down into his wine cup. The sight of so much lace spread over Porthos's large frame was an assault upon his eyes. "You have a new benefactress," he guessed.

"No," Porthos fluffed the ruffle at his wrist. "Martine has forgiven me."

Aramis rolled his eyes. "O happy day," he intoned. "In its honour, let there be no. More. Attempts. At music."

"Is that what it was?" Athos enquired with feigned interest, and Aramis turned to him with a thoughtful expression that was almost certainly as false.

"In fact, I am not sure," he said earnestly. "Porthos?"

"Hm?" Porthos tore his gaze away from adjusting yet more lace — good God, the man had a lack of taste that was almost impressive — and blinked at Aramis. "What?"

"Apparently not," Aramis said with a shrug.

"Apparently not _what_?" demanded Porthos, pursuing what should never have been started and what was almost certainly Athos's fault for asking about in the first place.

"Music," Aramis said firmly.

"We haven't got any," Porthos said.

"A fact of which I am, sadly, quite aware," Aramis agreed.

Athos, was completely not in the mood for the scuffle that Aramis seemed to be well on his way to inviting... again. Perhaps a change of subject?

"So," he interrupted before Porthos could reply, "how long has Madam Martine been widowed?"

"Oh," Porthos finally stopped twitching and flipping lace, "a good twelve months at least. It's a sad story really. The poor woman has been widowed four times."

"I'm not sure whether that's terribly sad or suspiciously good fortune," Aramis murmured, but when Athos looked across at him, he saw no trace of hidden mockery in the curve of his unsmiling mouth.

It was sometimes easy to forget that training for the priesthood did not only mean a thorough knowledge of the lives of the saints, but a rather deeper knowledge of human nature than Athos ever thought men should possess. If he was incurably wearied of the world's vagaries, Aramis made up for it with an equally incurable and as deeply-seated suspicion of its motives.

"To tell it honestly, she normally seems to attract much older men," Porthos shrugged. "She is a dainty little thing and I think they want to protect her. Not that she really seems to need it but the image is there and of course, now that she's on her own and has money to manage, things might be different."

"And you will, of course, be offering your assistance," Aramis's lips twitched with amusement.

"Well, it would be a shame to leave her all alone with so much responsibility."

"Indeed," Aramis said, mind apparently leaving Porthos's latest calculated infatuation for more interesting things. "Well, I wish you luck with your new-found sense of obligation. And of course in your wooing. And the state of your purse —" He let out an indignant squawk as Porthos ruffled his hair with a large hand.

"I knew you cared," Porthos said smugly.

Aramis, straightening his hair with his fingers as best he could, merely sighed. Athos ostentatiously ignored the pair of them.

It was only when Porthos had departed to overwhelm Martine with his new finery that he dropped his facade of deliberate disinterest.

" _Four_ times widowed?" he said incredulously. "And the man sees nothing to this that could be deemed unwise?"

"Love is blind?" Aramis ventured with a smirk. "And deaf as well, judging from Porthos's whistling."

"Perhaps so, but I would just as soon that our friend not add himself to the somewhat daunting list of deceased paramours."

"But they were all... older than Martine. Surely it was all just poor luck and God's plan?"

"God's plan, perhaps," Athos agreed, "if it had only happened one, or possibly twice. Four times, however, seems to lend more to earthly intervention than divine."

"As I said," Aramis agreed, "suspiciously good fortune." His expression was at its mildest, and therefore at its least encouraging. Athos resisted the impulse to sigh, knowing that at least half of Aramis's apparent determination to be as unforthcoming as possible was his own fault. If he had spent a little less time convincing everyone of his complete and utter detachment, and a little more effort on admitting he _listened_ occasionally, Aramis would not be nearly as wary of admitting any sort of concern.

As it was, his fellow Musketeer seemed to have decided that the only way to make Athos take part in any sort of continuing conversation was to affect a blandness that was entirely at odds with his nature, when they were alone. Athos spared a moment of regret for the disappearance of the determined visionary of a year since, before allowing relief that Aramis was learning concealment to take over and subdue his faint sense of remorse at being the cause of this learnt change.

"And it does not concern you that Porthos may be next?" he challenged.

"I suspect he is too young and impecunious," came the dry response.

Athos glared at him in silence for some moments, until Aramis closed his eyes and stifled a sigh. "It is of some concern," he admitted at last.

"And," Athos added, "Madame Martine has been offering to cook for him — a task that few ladies of her financial quality deign to lower themselves to."

"But which would be an excellent way to introduce something less than savoury to Porthos's diet?" Aramis raised an eyebrow.

"Exactly."

"Of course," Aramis said musingly, "the man has the constitution of an ox. It's entirely possible he wouldn't notice."

Athos was torn between wanting to laugh and wanting to shake Aramis until his teeth rattled. _How can you not take this seriously?_ he wanted to demand. _How can you not know what women are, believe anything good might lie within them? How can you not be afraid?_

But the answer was simple, and clear, and cold.

_Because he is not you. And you would not have him become so._

So he confined himself to a small smile, and let the subject drop, as Aramis so clearly wished it to.

[ ](http://s48.photobucket.com/albums/f225/Gemeralda/Musketeers/?action=view&current=DIVIDER.png)

In retrospect, he supposed a few days later, it might have been better if he had simply locked Porthos in the cupboard (for his own good, naturally) and left him there to starve. The man had been so full of joie de vivre in recent times that it almost turned Athos's stomach. And really, the added annoyance of that morning's ebullience had nothing to do with a late night (early morning), little sleep and too much wine. Nor was he, as Porthos suggested, hung over. He was never hung over, and if that was mostly due to the fact that he was also seldom completely sober, well, that was his own business.

The Musketeers' headquarters remained, as ever, oblivious to anyone's mood. Which suited him extremely well. Unfortunately, it only provoked Porthos to flights of eloquence that Athos really wished _were_ unsurpassed.

"And flexible, did I mention flexible?" Porthos was currently asking a world that not only did not care, but did not want, in any way, to know.

"Unfortunately," Aramis said sourly. He looked worse than Athos felt and about three days' worth more of it, which should have been impossible, since they had only bidden each other good night a few hours since.

"What were _you_ drinking?" Porthos asked, staring at him.

"Gall, wormwood, bile and despair," Aramis shot back without pausing for a second.

"Sounds revolting," said Porthos absently. "But Martine —"

"O God," said Aramis. It did not sound remotely prayerful.

"Not another word, Porthos," Athos growled. "Completely too much information about a woman that I might possibly have to look in the eye some time."

"But really, she's just so—"

"No. Stop." Athos covered his ears. "She's perfect. An angel with the sexual prowess of a houri. We understand, so you can stop talking... now!"

"No-one understands my bliss," Porthos said sorrowfully.

"And they are all truly grateful for the fact," Aramis agreed, looking about him hopelessly for something doubtless lost to time and the inevitable piles of useless detritus that seemed to collect in every room.

Porthos went out, grumbling.

"I am beginning," Aramis said as he poked fruitlessly through one of the piles, "to wish Martine damn well would poison him — _where_ is my book, no-one else here _reads_ , if it's been pawned I will extract a most unpleasant vengeance on all..."

"Perhaps Porthos loaned it to his houri?" Athos grumbled. "And really, I wish you wouldn't speak quite so fondly of the possibility of his death. Even in jest."

Aramis bent down, finally finding a book beneath the edge of a blanket that was dragging off the side of one of the camp-beds. From the expression on his face, it was very far from being what he was looking for. "But surely if she actually were going to try something she'd have done it by now, don't you think?"

"You're asking me to figure out how a woman thinks?" Athos barked out a laugh, "Do you even know me at all?"

"Yes," Aramis said surprisingly grimly, and left it at that, and Athos floundering with it, stalking out of the antechamber to demand of a group of Musketeers, who cared even less about his book than they did about Porthos's love life, where the hell it had got to.

Athos, left in a solitary lack of splendour, stared at the wall for a few minutes, and wondered when everything, including Aramis's horrible moments of being far-too perceptive and damned silent with it, had got so completely out of his control.

[ ](http://s48.photobucket.com/albums/f225/Gemeralda/Musketeers/?action=view&current=DIVIDER.png)

It was hours later that Aramis returned, three books now tucked beneath his arm and a rather satisfied look on his face. Well, satisfied until he apparently realized that Athos was still sitting in the exact same spot he had left him in.

"Are you stuck?" He circled Athos's chair. "Inebriated? More so than usual, I mean. Or are you merely contemplating your place in the universe?"

"Hmmpf..." Athos shook his head, "Porthos hasn't come back yet."

"He is an adult, Athos, and you generally seem to treat _him_ as such." The emphasis on the word him was somewhat telling.

"Ah," said Athos, less than coherently, as a great many things finally slotted into place.

The first being that Aramis had, in fact, reached his majority some months ago, the second that he had been a Musketeer for nearly two years prior to that, and the third being that he had never, ever been an innocent.

Athos had met him when he was cold-bloodedly training to kill, simply because a man had made him feel fear for the first time in his life.

Athos had met him happily attempting to impale himself on the end of Porthos's rapier, in an attempt to learn whatever skills were necessary.

Athos had got him into the Musketeers to escape a murder charge, a crime of which he was almost if not quite innocent, and for which he felt no regret at all.

Athos was a complete idiot who had decided somewhere along the line that Aramis had been a choirboy rather than a priest, and of an age and inexperience that should be protected as such. Considering how many of the Cardinal's Guards (and, rumour had it, the woman the Cardinal longed to take for his own mistress) could testify to his decidedly unchoirboyish nature, it was hardly surprising that the man was mortally offended by Athos's current behaviour.

"I do, don't I?" Athos looked up. "But adult or not, he's my... friend, just as you are. I worry for you both."

The word _friend_ had been much more difficult to get out than it should have been, but perhaps with practice it would become easier.

"You've no reason to worry for me." Aramis frowned.

"Not at present, no." Athos agreed. "But Porthos is a different story. Tell me, la — er... Aramis, do you not think it justified?"

"Not at present, no," Aramis echoed, but he was not, strangely enough, mocking. "I think that when it comes to women, his blindnesses are neither yours nor mine. He sees neither the houri nor the angel, but rather a chance for financial security. And we are all lacking, a little, in that area. His methods of gaining it may not be ones I approve of, but —" He shrugged slightly.

"You do not see the angel either," Athos said with a faint smile. "Your analogy is flawed."

"But I admit to the possibility of the angel's existence, as I do the houri's," Aramis countered, "and that is more than you can say."

"Perhaps," Athos agreed, though grudgingly. "But in this case, I cannot place Madame Martine with the angels — not with four previous husbands lying cold in the ground."

Athos climbed to his feet, drained his cup and walked steadily toward the door.

"Off to pray for guidance?" Aramis smiled crookedly, as if he wished it were so.

"Off to check up on the great lout," Athos admitted. "If he's safe, it's no harm done."

Aramis's strange, crooked look smoothed out into something smaller and oddly soft, and Athos stared at him. "What?" he demanded.

"Congratulations, Athos," Aramis said quietly. "You may yet attain adulthood yourself."

Athos pulled the lost book out of his doublet and threw it at Aramis's head in one smooth movement, before walking out into the main chamber, his heart feeling oddly lighter.

[ ](http://s48.photobucket.com/albums/f225/Gemeralda/Musketeers/?action=view&current=DIVIDER.png)

The moonlight did little to make their task easier, its light alternately shining and hiding behind high moving clouds. The house of Madame Martine was far more dimly lit than Athos would have expected under the circumstances and knowing, far better than he would have liked, Porthos's preferences for having the lamps lit at all times and in all circumstances.

"Are you certain this is the correct house?" Aramis glanced warily back at the road before looking in yet another darkened window.

"Positive," Athos answered. "Porthos dragged me here one day to show me just how well off the woman was."

It was a very nice house from the outside, and what glimpses they were catching through the darkened windows did nothing to dispel the impression.

Aramis muttered something about politics being less confusing and less effort. Athos pretended he hadn't heard and wasn't at all curious.

"Few servants," Aramis said at last. "No lights. The top floors are shuttered. It seems the mistress of the house is absent."

"Apparently so," Athos straightened from where he had been peeking through a low window into the kitchens. "This begs the question, then, as to where Porthos has actually gone."

It did, indeed. Porthos was not a good enough actor to have fooled both of them. He had to have at least spent part of his evening with Madame Martine... or at least he had thought he was going to.

"Perhaps she was called away unexpectedly and Porthos went home?"

"Perhaps," Athos agreed.

"We're going to walk all the way to the end of the Vaugirard, just to ensure he did, aren't we," Aramis said, but he didn't sound too annoyed.

"Yes," said Athos simply.

Aramis was suspiciously quiet on the subject.

It was only when they were past Athos's house — a _long_ way past his house — that Athos began to realise he had never, in fact, lowered himself to actually _walk_ the distance between his lodgings and those of Porthos.

Aramis, who obviously had, many times, was trying not to laugh.

"God," Athos finally gave out a snort of amusement. "No wonder the man has legs like an ox."

"And the stubbornness to match," Aramis had to add.

But Porthos's grandiose apartments were closed as well, no lights blazing out to show that their magnificent owner was home, and there was no Mousqueton to bar them entry, as was his tradition.

"And now," Aramis said softly, "is when I admit that it may indeed be time to feel some concern."

Athos had to agree, and wondered suddenly if they should have checked Madame's property for freshly turned earth. 

No, he refused to consider that they might be too late.

"Well, she can't have just disappeared into thin air. If she travelled she'd need a coach and servants. Someone must have seen her leave."

Aramis, in a rare gesture of annoyance, raked one gloved hand through his hair, frowning. "Not if she did not wish them to," he said, and Athos was struck once more by that strange sense of _yes, here, like this, this is how we fit, where you say what I do not dare to and I accept you were right to doubt beforehand, while I choked on bitterness and gave you nothing but disregard_. "Not if she has done this before."

"Changes her name," Athos said with a bitterness he could not conceal. "Changes it, and moves on."

Aramis lowered his hand to Athos's arm, and gripped, startling and sudden and warm. "A possibility only," he said cautiously, his tone of voice at odds with the reassurance of his grasp. "But one to be considered, yes."

 _He knows_ , Athos thought, the fear startling through him, an irrational singing in his blood, in his ears. _He knows —_

But Aramis's eyes were dark and clear in the dim light, no judgement or suspicion in them, only concern — for him, for Porthos, for all of it, it did not matter. The fear subsided. Aramis did not know, or if he did, it was only what his perception would have told him long since — that Athos had been hurt, long before they met, and by a woman. No difficult conclusion, there.

The idea that he might have returned the hurt in full and with finality had never entered the former abbe's mind.

Athos slumped slightly in relief, hoping Aramis would take it for discouragement at not finding Porthos, "I doubt we'll be able to find out anything tonight in any case. Let's try for some sleep and in the morning we can begin asking questions."

It wasn't the answer he wanted, but it seemed sensible. He looked toward Aramis for confirmation.

"Yes," Aramis said distantly, but his thoughts were evidently neither upon sleep nor the morning. "Yes, I believe that to be the most sensible course."

Strange, how their thoughts so closely mimicked one another at times, but Aramis said no more, and they began the long traverse back along the Vaugirard.

It was only when they reached the Luxembourg gardens that Aramis broke his silence.

"If I were to leave you now, would you sleep?"

It was a carefully bland question, the tone so innocuous as to be without fault. And yet — and yet — 

Athos could still feel the warmth of Aramis's fingers, pressing upon his arm, still see the surety in his eyes.

It was not altogether a question, save that he was evidently questioning his own presumption of knowledge that the answer would be _no_.

"No," Athos replied honestly. "But neither can I promise that I'll sleep if you remain, so you might just as well go and try to get some rest yourself."

"The possibility of sleep is enough," Aramis answered. "I'll stay."

It was odd how much an effect two simple words could have. "As you wish."

"If I am too infuriated by you, Grimaud's incessant chatter, or the sheer appalling poverty of your existence," Aramis assured him, "I can retreat to my own rooms. They are, after all, as you have pointed out on numerous annoying occasions, within stumbling distance."

Athos, who whether he admitted it or not, remembered more than half of those occasions, laughed.

[ ](http://s48.photobucket.com/albums/f225/Gemeralda/Musketeers/?action=view&current=DIVIDER.png)

The following morning did not so much arise as it crashed upon the senses in a too bright display of sun through the unshuttered windows, and someone cursing at a horse outside Athos's rooms. Both he and Aramis awoke from a far too short sleep with a snort and a mad dash to the window to see... well, whatever they had expected to see, it was not a vegetable cart with a much maligned and droopy equine who seemed insensible to his master's voice and waving arms.

"God, it's too early to face that sober," Athos claimed, pulling his head back in through the window. "Grimaud! Breakfast!"

"Ugh," said Aramis coherently, though whether it was at the thought of breakfast or Grimaud or indeed the morning's proceedings was impossible to determine. "No wine, thank you."

Athos stared at him.

"Yes, breakfast," he repeated, and was more than a little irritated to see Grimaud and Aramis share a silent and yet oddly all-descriptive look as the manservant entered with what, impossibly, seemed to be plates containing more than the usual bread and wine.

"Ah, moving on from Communion fasting, how generous," Aramis said, reaching for one of the plates and uncovering it with a faint grimace as he discovered coddled and eyeball-resembling eggs. "Grimaud, if you somehow managed to get in touch with Bazin between now and our untimely arrival last night, may I repeat to you what never seems to penetrate his ideas of appropriate victuals, and inform you that I loathe eggs at all times and quite particularly before noon."

Grimaud bowed, and offered another plate, which, Athos noted to his annoyance, carried slices of an extremely good ham he had been holding in reserve for some point in time as, for example, when he would not have to share it.

From the wicked little smile on Aramis's face, his reaction had been noted.

"Ah, much better..." Aramis stabbed a large portion of the slices and transferred them to his own plate. "Sit down, Athos. Join me."

"Of course," Athos snorted and took a seat. "I see it is you who must be master here, after all. You invite me to my own table and command my servants."

"You're simply jealous that Grimaud likes me better than he does you," Aramis grinned, tight-lipped around a mouth full of ham.

"Hmph," Athos grunted, pouring himself wine despite Grimaud's carefully blank look and Aramis's sigh. " _Is_ there bread, at least?"

"In the basket, I would assume," Aramis said with a sweetness that promised no good at all. He took a mug of small beer himself from the pitcher Grimaud was offering him, after a quick glance around to ensure there was nothing more palatable to the hour, such as chocolate or coffee.

Athos reached for it in a way that he hoped elevated him to those echelons of silently-gesturing fluency.

"Butter?" he asked through clenched teeth.

Grimaud pointed at the eggs. Apparently that was where the butter had gone. To a foodstuff that no-one would even contemplate eating. It seemed that Athos ran his household in ways worse than he had contentedly imagined.

Athos grunted, then contented himself with viciously ripping the bread into small pieces and proceeding to dunk them in his wine before eating them. It was a small revenge, but a happy one, gained with the strength of Aramis's somewhat pained expression.

"Where do we begin?" Athos continued the previous night's sleep-postponed conversation.

"Truth be told, I am not sure," Aramis said, tipping back in his chair and looking up at the ceiling, as though expecting answers there. "I shall assume he requested leave, or we would not be the only ones concerned. And this is Porthos, so someone in the city must be aware of whatever plans he had made."

"If he was given the opportunity to make them," Athos muttered.

"That too," Aramis conceded, "but I think for now at least we must assume he did. He was not... of a mood to inform us as to his movements, you may recall. Mockery may amuse you, as it does me, but it does not invite a giving of simple and obvious — such as location for the next few days — rather than a barrage of too-informative detail, designed to deflect the unwary querent. Far easier to delay the moment of inevitability for the sake of temporary pleasure, would you not think?"

"I would," Athos conceded. "I suppose that means we must question people... servants, neighbours and the like? Tradesmen?"

"Possibly." Aramis gave a small grimace.

It was understandable. None of them were ever in the highest graces of those in trade. When they were not in funds their accounts ran up and when they were in funds... well, there were always more interesting things for their coins to be spent on than paying accounts.

"Do we know any of Madame Bissette's friends?" Aramis continued, leaning back in his chair. "I am afraid I did not listen to much of Porthos's talk when it came to her."

Athos gave a laugh, "It is much safer that way."

"Always," Aramis agreed with a small smile. "But some of his interminable rambling must have taken hold at some point, whether we wished it to or not."

"Unfotunately, yes," Athos said, "but none of it is of use, unless you wished me to begin rewriting some of the more — explicit — texts. In the name of scholarship, of course, I know how you love to improve —"

"I can and will improve these eggs by making them into a most becoming hat for you," Aramis said without a trace of amusement, "and will do so should you even think of continuing along that path of thought."

"I can't promise not to think it," Athos chuckled, "but, unlike our great missing lout of a friend, I will promise not to speak it."

Aramis suddenly grew serious, "Surely he is well. He may not grasp scheming as quickly as we would like but he is usually quite capable of taking care of himself."

"If it were a straightforward attack," Athos replied, "I would have no fear for him. But women? You can never be certain what form their devious natures will supply."

"I — no, I suppose I cannot," Aramis said, but it did not sound like agreement. "Though perhaps... I may have some inside knowledge we can use, as to that."

"Never tell me you have some hidden mistress!" Athos exclaimed in mock-scandal. "One secret too many, Aramis, and I'll begin to think you hide yourself, not from all but your friends, but from even us." _Even me_. It was strange how much the thought hurt.

"Mistress, no, that would be an impossibility rather than a secret, for like you I take none," Aramis said dryly. "But la Chevreuse is my _lover_ , Athos, and I am quite sure you are as well-informed as the rest of the world on that particular score."

Athos could think of nothing to say, his mind a blank at Aramis's bluntness and what he had just admitted.

So the little abbe _was_ taking freely what the Cardinal had offered to pay for, and without any kind of fiscal or material benefits to hand.

"Good God," he said at last, slow and almost slurred, his thoughts racing faster than his tongue could find control. "You would ask the woman Richelieu pursues openly for help in this matter? And what of self-preservation, is that to be forgotten too —"

"I have none when it comes to my friends and Marie pretends to none whatsoever," Aramis said crisply. "And I'll thank you to allow me to make this visit alone, _my friend_ , for there happens to be a degree of fencing I cannot abide, and mutual despite and spite comes under that broad heading."

"I don't think—" Athos cut himself off. "Yes, you're probably right. You speak with Madame and I will brave the tradesmen and shopkeepers. "

Aramis nodded, "And I think we should be prepared to leave thereafter, depending on our new information."

[ ](http://s48.photobucket.com/albums/f225/Gemeralda/Musketeers/?action=view&current=DIVIDER.png)

Tradesmen and shopkeepers had an overinflated sense of their own importance, Athos had decided. True without them he would not be sitting at this table, drinking a rather excellent glass of wine, but without him they would have had no reason to bring it from the vintner nor the vintner to ferment it from the grapes. So, if it came right down to it he was their raison d'etre. Oh, he did understand that money was also one of their motivating forces, but that too would come from him... or not, which of course was their complaint.

It was, however, a most disconcerting feeling to realise that, reason for their continuing existence or not, tradesmen had an actual right to feel superior to him, since they could demand money from him and he could not return the favour.

His mood was therefore rather sullen by the time Aramis entered, looking decidedly pleased with himself and infuriatingly unruffled in a way that suggested he had quite carefully put himself _back_ in order, and recently, too.

"You take pillow-talk to extremes," he snarled in greeting, and Aramis did not even have the courtesy to look chagrined.

"I take it _seriously_ ," he said in contradiction, and gestured for another glass to be brought.

"As I do the safety of our friend," Athos ground out. "Too much to waste time in dalliance that would be better spent on finding his direction."

"It does not, however, seem to have kept you from quite a bit of wine," Aramis mused.

"I have been talking to shopkeepers, and walking all around town, an exercise that has left me thirsty and not much more enlightened."

"Ah," Aramis nodded, "but my own quest, I am sure, gave me just as much exercise."

Athos gave him an exceptionally sour look. Aramis blinked at him sweetly in return, propped his chin on his hand, and waited.

"I am beginning to wonder if it was not preferable when you maintained a monastic silence," Athos grumbled eventually.

"Did I speak?" The same sweetness, utterly false and slightly dangerous, was in Aramis's tones as his lowered eyelids hinted at.

"Why yes, and just now," Athos retorted, unable to prevent himself from rising to the bait.

"Ah," Aramis intoned. He had not moved from his posture of feigned attention.

Athos sighed. "Very well. I concede. What was it that the fair Marie had for you in her store of bottomless knowledge?"

"Athos, such scandalous implications —" Aramis began, and then laughed, not the small secret one that kept his teeth hidden and his eyes lowered, but a shivering bout of real amusement. "Your phrasing is unfortunate, my dear," he said at last, "but I'll grant you the point. And that is — there is nothing to tell, save an address in the country. But —" he bit his lip, suddenly serious — "I think we may well be in danger of error. If Marie has heard nothing of this woman —"

"Then she is more subtle than we thought," Athos gritted out. "God! There is no end to these creatures' perfidy!"

Aramis inexplicably put his head on the table and sighed. "Quite," he said very dryly to the stained woodwork. "Of course. My mistake."

"You should know that finding no information is not the same as there being none," Athos huffed. "For myself, I have discovered that Porthos had all deliveries to his rooms stopped and that he has donated a small... a very small... gratuity to the Watch to ensure that they do a check of them during their rounds."

"So he must have had plans to leave," Aramis muttered, without raising his head. "That's encouraging, at least."

"Or coercion," Athos said.

"Oh obviously," Aramis agreed with what sounded remarkably like sarcasm. "How could I ignore such a thing?"

Athos stared at him. "I would almost believe you were not taking this seriously," he said, and Aramis mumbled something to the table that sounded akin to 'whatever gave you that idea?' while Athos continued to apply spurs to the former abbe's never-quite latent sense of responsibility and burgeoning guilt resulting from this, by overriding his mutterings with "were it not of course for the fact that you are genuinely concerned for our friend's well-being."

Aramis groaned.

"Treville has given him leave." Athos added.

"But you still think this is an indicator of possible foul play?"

"Do you believe that a woman who has done away with four former husbands is stupid enough to actually commit further atrocities while in town?"

"'Possibly' done away with, Athos... that is an important differentiator." Aramis pointed out, lifting his head now that his wine had arrived. "And, really, if she has done away with them she had something to gain each time. What would she have to gain from doing away with Porthos?"

"That is the question, isn't it? The motivation of the female sex... does even God understand it?"

"I may be misusing this word," Aramis said to his wine, "but Lord, I _devoutly_ hope not."

[ ](http://s48.photobucket.com/albums/f225/Gemeralda/Musketeers/?action=view&current=DIVIDER.png)

They left Paris fairly early the next morning. (Early at least, for Athos, who usually declared that morning did not begin until the hour had two digits in it — unless, of course, you were still awake from the night before.) They were headed vaguely northwest towards the town of Limetz-Villez, where they had finally ascertained that Madame Martine Bissette (Martine Marin Jouade Colbert Bissette... if Athos had got the names and the order of all her deceased husbands correctly) had a home that she visited several months out of the year. This, they decided, would be the most likely place for her to take her newest paramour.

"I am not sure whether I pity Porthos the more for the possibly murderous inclinations of his mistress or her preferred retreat," Aramis contributed to the general air of pessimism, which was untainted by the pervasive sunshine and the incessantly cheerful birds. "Lord. Solitary pleasures indeed, one would think at least a few farmhouses would emerge on the horizon from time to time."

Athos just scowled at him.

"Yes, obviously for you this would constitute an idyll," Aramis said sourly, glaring at the dust on his boots as though it was conferring a personal insult. "Silent, bucolic, and dusty. I can imagine no greater heaven that your mind could ever encompass."

"Whereas you prefer bare stone walls and a bed to match? The incessant clanging of bells and the chanting of hymns?" Athos gave a huff, pausing to stare at a mile marker, the stone nearly covered by a profusion of thistles. "That's ever so much more restful."

"It's more _orderly_ , and infinitely cleaner," Aramis retorted. "And I do not believe that many places demand a stone bed, these days."

"I always forget the fabled luxury of monasteries, yes," Athos agreed, beginning to smile despite himself. "I knew all that gold belonging to the Church went to make the lives of the devout a haven of silken pleasures."

"Your fantasies are disturbing, truly," Aramis said, but he had ducked his head down against his chest to conceal his own smile. "Silken pleasures in a monastery? I shudder to think of the monks you have met."

"And would that be a pleasurable shudder of reminiscence?"

"But of course," Aramis countered in the same tones, smirking across at him. "Why do you think I still debate my return?"

"Alas, I know that the pleasures of Paris are simply unable to compete with the sybaritic comforts of the Church," Athos said dryly. "I shall have to take that into consideration when planning our future evenings."

The half-hidden code of the marker was finally deciphered, and they continued on toward Limetz-Villez.

The lanes grew narrower and more shaded, and as a result less dusty, which seemed to improve Aramis's mood at least. He even gave some of the trees what might, in a far dimmer light and under the observance of someone possessed of a kindly nature and a tendency to wilful blindness, have been an approving look.

Athos, who for reasons of his own tended not to look at trees too carefully, in case he began to wonder as to their structural integrity and suitability for bearing dead weights, contented himself with envisaging a point when one of the lanes would actually lead somewhere that was not yet another lane.

Their journey was interrupted suddenly, as a small... well, considering its apparent age, all Athos could guess at was... child, being neither obviously boy or girl in its loose fitting gown, toddle out in front of them. 

"Marie! Marie!" Ah... a girl then, followed closely by her somewhat neglectful keeper, a boy of about eleven years. "Sorry, Messieurs, she can be very fast sometimes."

"It's quite alright," Aramis answered. They had been ambling rather slowly after all. "And perhaps you can help us?"

The boy looked up at them, now holding the other child on his hip, "I can try."

"Wonderful. Can you direct us to the home of Madame Bissette? We're certain it's nearby but we seem to be having trouble finding the exact turn."

"A mile across the fields," the boy said, and smiled. "But you'll want to take the road around, and then the gates on the left, if you don't want my da shouting at you. He's her steward," he added with pride, "and Madame lets us play there whenever we want."

"I begin to feel my teeth rot with the sugar," Athos murmured, and Aramis gave him a look that promised extreme havoc at a future date.

"That is kind of her, and helpful of you," Aramis said more loudly and infinitely more charmingly. "Are you practising to become her gatekeeper in a few years?"

"Oh no, M'sieur." The boy grinned up at him. "I'll go to Paris, and join you and fight for the King!"

Athos barked out harsh, scathing laughter, the sound taking even him by surprise. Aramis closed his eyes in a brief moment of what was almost certainly not prayer, and then said, "A most worthy ambition, and I wish you luck in it." He reached into his purse, and took out what Athos was damned sure were his last few coins. "But for now, you will need to begin setting aside money for a good sword. Consider this an investment on my part, as one day I may commission your weapon beneath my own captaincy."

The boy's eyes grew large as he tucked the coins carefully into his pocket, "Thank you, M'sieur."

Aramis gave him a nod and turned his horse back down the lane, Athos following behind. "Well, see if he still thanks you when he's marching drills in twelve inches of mud and nothing to look forward to for dinner but cold mutton."

"He's young. His plans will change tomorrow and he'll decide that being a carter is the finest thing he can think of." Aramis gave him a smug smile. "Strange to be saying this to _you_ , but seldom do we wind up where our childhood dreams take us."

Athos was about to reply with something scathing, and then forced himself to remember that the reason most men joined the Musketeers was not because of some childhood dream, but rather because that dream had been, one way or another, destroyed for them by time, or experience, or misfortune.

_Or false marriage._

He had never thought it so clearly before, how that was what he and Aramis had in common most of all, that they had given up their names and their lives and their every desire to a dream that wanted none of who they really were.

Aramis was as much in mourning as he, as divorced and betrayed and widowed as he, and yet he wore it more lightly, even having done it with his own hand as surely as Athos had, he wore it lightly.

It was an oddly humbling thought.

[ ](http://s48.photobucket.com/albums/f225/Gemeralda/Musketeers/?action=view&current=DIVIDER.png)

They arrived at the estate of Madame Martine (Marin Jouade etc, etc,) to find that, indeed, the trip across the fields was, apparently much shorter, for there stood the young man they had left shoving coins in his pocket, his sister still balanced on his hip, along with the Lady herself, and Porthos, a grand smile on his face.

"What a surprise, " Madame moved forward to greet them as they dismounted. "I had been telling Porthos that he should have invited his friends to join us... and here you are."

Athos shared a look of complete panic with Aramis as they dismounted. "I —" he started, and was cut off by Porthos and his idea of a greeting, which bore no resemblance at all to any convention ever invented.

"I didn't think the Captain would give you leave!" Porthos sounded indecently happy. "I asked him, of course, but all he gave me was a grunt, which means all sorts of things from him, none of them any good half the time, so I got out before he changed his mind about me — hey, where were you both, anyway?"

 _On an interminable quest for your carcass_ Athos thought a bit madly. _The disposal of which could be arranged without Madame's help._

"Finalising arrangements," Aramis said, thankfully not strangled by a desire to strangle. "And we thought we'd probably get here as quickly as a messenger, so it seemed better to trust to hospitality and, in fact, presume upon kindness, than to waste time awaiting a reply." He bowed to Martine with the most charming of his upward glances, a little gentle flirtation that was designed only to flatter and not to impose.

She chuckled pleasantly and then turned to Athos, tucking her hand into his elbow as if it were the most natural thing in the world, "Well, I am delighted that you did, both of you."

Athos managed, somehow, not to flinch or pull away. He had been raised with this after all, the courtly manners, the false smile, he'd be able to appear perfectly at ease whether he was or not, "Your estate is lovely, Madame. We would not have missed it for anything. You also have quite a delightful page... two in fact." He gave a nod at the children who were dashing back towards the fields.

"They are a delight," Martine agreed, "but I fear for the continuing existence of my poor house were they to become my pages. Not that I would have them any different, but I confess to enough pleasure in a roof over my head, whole and undamaged, to enjoy their company _rather more_ when they remain just as they are now." Her smile was a small shared amusement with him, as though he were expected to understand what she meant.

What in God's name had Porthos been _telling_ her about him?

"Outside," Martine clarified, and Athos, unwillingly, smiled back at her.

"Yes... I can see both the allure and the benefit." He nodded his agreement as he allowed himself to be led inside, only a quick glance back at Aramis giving any clue that he wanted or required rescuing. Really, the woman played the part rather nicely, but there were still four men in the cold ground that needed explaining.

How he was going to get that explanation remained a mystery, as Martine enjoyed Porthos's attentions and Aramis's gently scurrilous court gossip equally — and where did Aramis learn those things, anyway, Athos wondered, before remembering Madame de Chevreuse and cursing himself mentally for an idiot.

Her only flaw seemed to be that she was too old. Not even so much in years, she would have easily passed for a much younger woman even sitting as she was in direct light from the open windows, but she had a curious maturity to her, a stillness within her that was only briefly stirred by Porthos's exuberance, like ripples passing over a millpond.

No, they were not suited, Porthos and Martine, but Athos was beginning to wonder if he had misjudged the reasons for it. And yet — there were dead men to be explained, and none of this country idyll leant itself to solving the puzzle.

They were, however, to be there for quite some time. Surely something would slip... somewhere. And in the meantime, Athos was more than certain that the woman would not attempt causing Porthos any harm with Aramis and himself there in the house with them. She did not strike him as quite that bold, although since she seemed to be doing very well at covering up any surprise or frustration that their unannounced arrival might have caused. In fact, there were moments that Athos wondered if she actually were more duplicitous than any other woman, until he once again remembered those four other men.

"I must say again, your estate is quite lovely, Madame," Athos began. "A bequest from Monsieur Bissette, I will assume?"

"Oh, no," Martine smiled at him, while Aramis kicked him, hard, in the back of the ankle. It hurt, even through the protective leather of his boots. "No, no, this is mine in trust, the only thing poor Monsieur Jouade managed to bequeath to me from his heirs. He had so many, you know, it was hardly fair to them that I be given this for any more than my time on earth. And of course my steward is a genius at running the place, I'm ensured an income that leaves me quite comfortable."

"Oh," said Athos blankly. "There is no... there was no... er, that is, the will makes no objection to your remarriage?"

Martine looked at him in surprise. "But why should it? He was so much older than me, you see, it would have been quite wrong of him to condemn me to mourning for so much of my life." Her eyes narrowed in amusement. "Monsieur Jouade did not approve of mourning, as he proved."

Porthos shouted with genuine laughter. "I would have liked him!"

"Yes, you would," Martine said gently, and there, again, was the sense that Porthos only passed over her senses, but did not touch them.

"Too much mourning can be unhealthy," Aramis ventured softly. 

"It can, indeed," Martine agreed. "I was deathly ill when I met Monsieur Jouade... grieving for my dear Francois... Monsieur Marin. Of course, Francois was taken by influenza and I was ill myself... and his family was... well, they insisted that I leave, ill or not. Monsieur Jouade helped me, found me a doctor. By the time I was well, I had quite fallen in love with the dear sweet man."

"Gratitude can be a strong motivator," Athos nodded.

"My dear Athos," Aramis purred, at his most gently, self-indulgently, _dangerously_ wicked, "you are missing the point."

Athos blinked at him. "How so? Gratitude —"

"Pales in comparison to the joys of a marital home in which love brings with it the... _stamina_... of age," Aramis said, and his smile was just on the wrong side of coy.

Athos choked on his wine.

Martine blushed.

And Porthos pounded Aramis on the back with a forcefully delighted glee that almost knocked him out of his seat.

"Please, Aramis," Athos caught his breath and waited for his friend to right himself, "you are embarrassing our hostess."

The glare that he got in return was almost inflammatory.

"And on that note," Aramis continued, "perhaps your steward would be kind enough to show us around? I know that Athos would most certainly be fascinated."

With enormous restraint, Athos refrained from hitting him. "Yes, indeed I would," he managed to say without conveying his desire to kill someone. Preferably Aramis, although Porthos was still near the top of the list by virtue of existing.

"Of course!" Martine said, getting to her feet. "I'm sure you'll excuse us. I think I have quite fatigued poor M. Porthos here with several rather detailed tours already."

This time, Athos managed to choke on air.

[ ](http://s48.photobucket.com/albums/f225/Gemeralda/Musketeers/?action=view&current=DIVIDER.png)

They actually passed on the guided tour, choosing rather to wander through the gardens and fields, and use their solitude to discuss their next move — if there was to be one — and what they had learned.

"The stamina of age... " Athos snorted out. "It will take me weeks to get that image out of my head."

"I would apologise, but your expression was worth it." Aramis smiled, small and secretive. "I enjoy enlightening you."

"Do you also enjoy the bruise developing between your shoulderblades, courtesy of our friend's agreement with this tactic?" Athos asked with faux-concern, and Aramis's annoying little smile disappeared.

"No, that much I'll grant you, I never enjoy bruises. But — better my shoulders than my pride. Speaking of which —"

Athos held up a hand. "No no, there I'll concede defeat. _To a degree_ ," he emphasised. "Were this the only part of her tale, I would concede entirely. But —"

"Yes," Aramis said, and now he only sounded sad. "But. Athos —" He was suddenly intent, his hand resting lightly on Athos's arm, as it had outside Porthos's rooms, a strangely fragile tether to immediacy. "She does not love him, you know. No — spare me some treatise on the falseness of women. She does not play him false. She likes him well enough. He gives her pleasure in all ways. She is, in their degree of companionship, of affection, as it stands, faithful to a fault. But it goes no further. You must have seen —"

"I saw," Athos said softly. "She finds Porthos to be like Jouade. Younger and brasher, but — alike."

"He reminds her of a happiness she might have had. Is there a word for that? To miss something one never possessed?"

Athos sighed. "Why yes, Aramis, and you know it well. As well as I." Aramis tilted his head a little, genuinely curious, and Athos continued in the same quiet tones as his companion, "We call it grief."

Aramis nodded slowly, "Indeed, my friend, we do."

It was a feeling they were both well acquainted with, and for his part, Athos wondered once again what it would be like to share the truth of his own with a friend, with Aramis... or Porthos. Then, just as quickly, he shoved that thought down. His truths were too great, his sins incomprehensible even to himself. Sharing them could only hurt the one thing he had gained since joining the Musketeers — two deep and abiding friendships that were as strong as they were new.

Aramis stayed where he was for a while, as though he had forgotten how his hand rested on Athos's arm, as though he were entirely immersed in his own thoughts and forgetful of his surroundings, but Athos knew him better than to believe this to be true. The most deliberately cerebral among them was also the least likely to become lost in the thicket of his own imaginings.

He was proved correct when Aramis said carefully, "If you were ever to find it necessary — if you were ever to come to a point where to speak the words aloud would be less of a grief to you than concealing them — you should know that I consider a confidence between friends to be as sacrosanct as the confessional."

Athos, rendered without words at all for a moment, could only reply — "I will hold that in mind."

Aramis's smile was neither coy nor secretive nor flirtatious in return, but only a little melancholy, a little too far away to be reached by understanding. "I think it would be better," he said, dropping his hand at last, "if that were something you held in your heart. As one does all things which must be pondered between the self and the soul."

 _It's hard to hold something in a place that's dead._ Those were the first words that Athos wanted to say, but he couldn't. Couldn't, somehow, demean Aramis's honest offer with a trite quip that he wasn't certain was true any longer. The friendships he had gained were working to resuscitate that long inactive organ. The truth of it was almost frightening.

Athos cleared his throat, and his introspection, "There are still two husbands to account for, even if Porthos isn't destined to be number five."

"Yes, yes," Aramis said, half-amused and half-impatient. "And I am sure the stories will be equally as fascinatingly — God forgive me, but maudlin."

"I am almost on the verge of hoping you're wrong," Athos admitted, and was rewarded by the strange, melancholic distance leaving Aramis entirely as he ducked his head and laughed.

"So murderous is to be preferred to the saccharine?" Aramis shook his head, still laughing. "And yet for once — I cannot blame you."

"It is rather a let down, isn't it?" Athos chuckled for a moment before he continued. "I was actually worried about him, you know? Porthos is... "

"Porthos." Aramis nodded, as if that answered everything. "Some days he needs a nursemaid... other days he is one."

"Try not to remind me of that last again while we remain here," Athos said dryly.

"Hmm? Why?"

"Because the murderous thoughts tend to become mine at that point," Athos admitted, and Aramis held up his hands in laughing concession.

[ ](http://s48.photobucket.com/albums/f225/Gemeralda/Musketeers/?action=view&current=DIVIDER.png)

They returned to the main building to find Madame pacing and agitated, a mild frown on her face. Porthos was obviously trying to soothe her, by means of hovering ineffectually off to one side and saying things he thought were comforting like, "There... there. Don't fret," and "We've slept in mudholes, I doubt this will be thought worse."

Athos failed to understand how any of this could possibly act as consolation to whatever had so perturbed his mistress, but, in a rare moment of wisdom, decided it would be better if he remained silent on the topic.

"What's this?" Aramis asked, "What has this great lout done to cause storm clouds on such a lovely face?"

"It would seem that I employ an unwarranted number of servants, taking care of a ridiculous number of rooms, who all believe en masse that I will only ever have one guest at a time with whom I am not sharing my chambers," Martine said in a mixture of exasperation and thoroughly-stung embarrassment.

"I myself suffer from a servant who believes the opposite and an equal _lack_ of accommodation in direct proportion," Aramis responded immediately, and smiled. "It is beyond measure infuriating, I agree, but the buffoon of our times is quite correct — we will have no objection to shared quarters, and I am perfectly sure yours are a state of luxury we are rarely in a position to enjoy."

"You're beyond kind," Martine murmured.

"I am honest, only," Aramis returned, not losing his smile. His eyelids were lowered, hiding the expression in those dark orbs from all save Martine, but either what she read in them or something that Athos did not understand, lying behind his words, reassured her, for she gave a firm little nod, her natural serenity returning to her, and returned his smile.

"Allow me to compensate for the inadequacies of my household by conducting you to your rooms myself, then, at least," she said with a small degree of mockery, and Aramis extended his arm to her.

"We could not, of course, wish for a fairer guide."

Porthos, his mouth slightly open, stared between them, and then looked at Athos, evidently expecting help which said Musketeer was in no position to provide. He merely shrugged, and followed their hostess and Aramis in obliging silence.

"It is, at least, the nicest guestroom, aside from it being the only one they aired out and made up," Martine shook her head again at the idiocy of servants. "Roomy and warm and —"

"I'm sure it will be fine," Aramis once again assured her as she opened the door.

The room was, as she said, very nice, and much more masculine than Athos would have given Martine credit for, judging from the rest of the house. Dark wood-panels graced the walls and the drapes and furnishings were done in lighter tones of green, the curving lines of chair-backs and bed rails picked out in places with worn gilding. A room refurbished as frequently as needed, but the existing structure remaining untouched. It seemed familiar in a way he had not thought of in years, giving him a slight twinge of homesickness that he pushed down immediately.

It was impossible to tell from Aramis's immediately-bestowed praise whether he felt any emotion at all towards the room save a desire to reiterate its suitability — but then Aramis, who readily admitted to a love of riches, of wealth in others, of pleasure in all areas of life, and of considering comfort as being paramount to pleasure, was also infuriatingly Spartan and revealed little or nothing when it came to his own preferences and choices.

He would be the first to say with outward-seeming contentment that he came from nothing but bare walls, and as such took beauty where he could find it — but what he truly considered beauty, none would ever know. Not opulence, Athos suspected, though he claimed sometimes to covet it.

And opulence was not to be found here, rather a deep-seated expectancy of lasting funds, no lace furbelows such as those Porthos liked to boast upon his large frame, accentuating an easy purse; rather years of durability, inherent wealth, replenishment at the fingertips of the owner's command.

It was that, Athos realised, which had caused him such a pang. Not that he had given up the status, the money itself, the expectation of his due rights, but rather that he had relinquished years' worth of assumption, had given up _all is as it should be_ for _all is what I can make of today_.

He had never thought before that it was something he had passed off so unthinkingly.

"This must be it," Aramis spoke, from where he lounged on the bed. He had stretched out right after Porthos had guided his lady away. "She did them in with soft bedding, a fine table and pleasant manners."

Athos blinked, then made a scoffing sound, "Stranger ways have been tried. Camouflage can be utilized in every day life."

They were, after all, prime examples of that homily, all three of them being something that they hadn't been before.

"Still," Aramis turned to his side and propped himself up on one elbow, "if she isn't trying to kill Porthos , we've managed an enjoyable holiday. I'll call that a win all around."

"A not quite official holiday," Athos felt he should remind him, and Aramis waved a hand.

"Semantics. Or rather an added garnish of enjoyment."

"Ah, and would that be enjoyment in the sense of 'We about to die salute you', with our final moments of exquisite pleasure provided by a good mattress and, I expect, an excellent cellar?"

"Hmmm, more in the sense of 'for _tomorrow_ we die', or whenever we can return to our beloved Captain's relieved and homicidal embrace, but yes, that would be the point I was making." Aramis stretched. "It is in fact a very good mattress. Goosefeather, I have no doubt. What more can a man ask?"

"I should be asking you that question, as you did not invite your Marie," Athos said very dryly, and Aramis stretched his arm back further, yawned, and then threw one of the bolsters at him with unerring and surprisingly forceful aim.

"Control your jealousy, my dear," he said, faintly amused. "And send for more hot water if you do not wish to find yourself using the no doubt icy waters of the courtyard pump."

"I should hold you beneath it instead," Athos rumbled. "It might shock your addled sense of humour."

He did request the water though. Their journey and the subsequent hours had been long and the reminiscent surroundings gave him an unusual longing to wash all three from his skin.

[ ](http://s48.photobucket.com/albums/f225/Gemeralda/Musketeers/?action=view&current=DIVIDER.png)

Athos insisted upon checking the stables before they made their appearance at dinner, much to Aramis's pithily-voiced disgust at having wasted time and effort on not smelling like a horse if they were simply going to bathe in said animals' aroma prior to attempting pleasantries.

Athos ignored him.

"Hello, Monsieur Athos, Monsieur Aramis," a young voice greeted them as they entered.

It was, of course, the steward's son.

"Hello, er—"

"Émile... " Aramis supplied.

"—Émile," Athos finished. "Are you in charge of the stables today?"

"No, but Madame allows me to help with the grooming. It really is the best way to learn how to care for my own horse when I get one," he confided.

"You're quite right," Aramis agreed.

"Have a care if you go near that one," Athos pointed. "Ireneus does not live up to his name and will take a bite out of you if you blink wrong."

Indeed, peaceful was the last thing that Ireneus was and Athos had, on more than one occasion, threatened to shoot the beast. Aramis, however, simply considered the horse to be suited to the man and never believed the threats.

He did, however, occasionally indulge himself in issuing a few promises of his own as to what would happen if Ireneus ever opened his mouth within his near proximity for any other reason than to accept the bit, and Athos was under no illusions as to how sincerely those promises were made. While he might, on occasion, be unable to resist baiting the issuer of solemn vows as opposed to empty threats, his horse seemed to be possessed of more sense, and was, if not docile when in Aramis's immediate presence, at least less... toothy.

Watching Aramis now, calmly checking over their mounts as though he had not been expressing his extreme distaste for all things horse-related but a few moments previously, Athos could not help but wonder what the man was like when deprived of an audience — and whether he would have seen a different treatment of the stables' inhabitants had Émile not been present.

It was unlikely. Aramis might be reserved, he might be fickle, he might on occasion be completely incomprehensible and as prone to melancholy as Athos himself, but brutality was not within his nature, not to any living creature.

_You should know that I consider a confidence between friends to be as sacrosanct as the confessional..._

No, while a too-carefully phrased insight into his companions' thoughts was among Aramis's many flaws, viciousness and cruelty were not, as yet, vices in which he permitted himself to indulge.

 _It is why I like him,_ Athos thought, for he did not think those vices were alien to Aramis, nor that they were ones which lay beyond the scope of his temptations; rather that he knew them, and acknowledged them for the release they could be — and resisted their lure, each and every time.

Athos, who could not always manage the same, the bitterness that lay within his heart often poisoning his mind and words and even actions, when he allowed his thoughts to range too freely, could not help but respect that control.

He handed Émile the curry brush, then kept a tight hand on Ireneus's halter while he watched the boy carefully brush him down.

"Nice job," he finally nodded, earning a crooked smile from Émile. 

"He is beautiful, Monsieur, and strong," Émile grinned. "I want one like him. Strong and fast for the charge."

"Strong and fast," Athos agreed, "because you need to be able to get out of trouble as fast as you get in."

Émile looked a bit puzzled at that thought, but any questions he might have asked were interrupted by Aramis, "And we get in trouble a lot. Are you done?"

Émile nodded, looking less than pleased by the fact, and Aramis laughed quietly. "And yes, indeed it does mean home for you. They do not need supervision. Much," he added a little irritably, "though they will do their best to convince you otherwise."

"I do not need much convincing," Émile laughed, but was soon out the door and running towards home, leaving Athos and Aramis to return to the house at a more leisurely pace.

[ ](http://s48.photobucket.com/albums/f225/Gemeralda/Musketeers/?action=view&current=DIVIDER.png)

They dined that afternoon in relative peace, Madame Bissette being an amenable hostess no matter what other faults she might have. The food was good, the company decent, and if Aramis had to aim a sharp kick at Athos on more than one occasion to keep him from being too crude or brooding, no one else seemed to notice.

Martine needed no prompting to speak freely of her other two husbands, and that with not only respect, but affection. No fortune-seeking widow-in-the-making after all, Porthos's mistress simply preferred the emotional security that a man who had already loved and given commitment once in his life could provide her with. As to financial security, she had found little save that which her own skills at choosing stewards and a few lifetime bequests had granted her. She was a housekeeper as much as she was a lady; a cook and seamstress as much as a courtier.

Even Athos, begrudging her a dead man's cellar while he drank it, could understand why to those of what was kindly termed middle-age, she would come only as a blessing to any household — and, if Porthos was to be believed, to any bed.

That she was lovely, if too thin for his tastes, was indisputable, that she had grace was undeniable, that she would make an older man a perfect second wife was evident.

What she could possibly see in a future with Porthos was absolutely inexplicable, and proved Aramis's point the more fully — that she saw no future at all with him, but only a brief pleasure in which she was currently free to indulge herself.

He could only hope that Porthos understood that as well.

"I really am so very glad that you came," Martine was saying. "Porthos warned me that you were soldiers and would be as rough as they can often be, but I can see he was merely exaggerating to protect me. You are both quite amusing and pleasant."

Athos gave a snort of laughter, quickly disguised as a cough.

"Are you quite sure he did not say that we simply change our behaviour to suit our company?" Aramis asked, and Martine pressed her lips together on a stifled laugh. 

"I don't —" Porthos began, and then — "Aramis!"

"Yes?" Aramis smiled at him sweetly.

"That was unfair," Porthos grumbled.

"As was your description of our manners, my friend. We save our pleasantries for those who appreciate it." Aramis's little smile was threatening to turn into outright laughter.

"Speak for yourself," Athos muttered into his cup. "I save mine for no-one."

"No, indeed, you bequeath your best upon us at all times," Aramis agreed, kicking him for what must have been at least the twenty-seventh time.

Athos bared his teeth at him in what could not, even by the most charitable, have been called a smile. Porthos laughed loudly.

"And on that note, I believe that I must make myself scarce to company, or live up to Porthos's description," Athos stood taking his cup with him. "Good night, Madame."

He assumed it had escaped no one that he bid no farewell to his companions as he stalked out the door.

"Oh, dear," he heard Martine say from the corridor to the other two men. "Is he really upset?"

It halted Athos in his tracks — not because of her query, but because he was genuinely curious as to what might be the reply.

Aramis, who was no doubt, damn him, still wearing his most sweetly conciliatory smile, contradicted her immediately, but with a surprising firmness that Athos doubted Martine was aware of. It was strange, how voices without expressions gave so much away. "No, just exercising some of the manners that he reserves for us alone. Do not trouble yourself, Madame, he won't go far... the wine is here, after all."

"You are not... kind, when you speak of him."

"No," Aramis replied simply. "He would not appreciate it. It is not soldiers alone that falsehood is unbecoming to. It is mankind."

"You mean good men." Porthos's voice was unusually quiet.

"No." And there was the uncompromising steel once more. "I do not. I mean all mankind."

"From you?" Porthos's natural ebullience reasserted itself, his voice rising and tinged with mirth. "You who lie like the finest of all Persian rugs?"

"And therefore who better to know?" was Aramis's only response, and there was no way of telling how he looked, but Martine's laughter proved it must have eased the conversation away from its decidedly thorny path.

[ ](http://s48.photobucket.com/albums/f225/Gemeralda/Musketeers/?action=view&current=DIVIDER.png)

Athos did not, indeed, go far, empty cup or not. He made a quick stop in the stable to again check on Ireneus, then wandered out into the gardens, taking a seat on a bench there until the moon rose enough to guide his feet and he could be fairly certain that Madame Bissette, at least, had retired for the evening.

He was half-expecting to be found, but that by Aramis alone. He was not expecting some almost forgotten residue of politeness to bring him to his feet and into the deeper shadow of the trees, upon hearing, not the footsteps of a solitary man, small and quiet and precisely placed, but the clear evening voices of what was intended as a private conversation.

Aramis and Porthos, in one of their rare moments of communion, believing themselves unheard.

"She's truly perfect, isn't she?" Porthos's voice boomed even at the level of normal conversation. "I know you think my plan to marry a rich widow is rather mercenary, but that doesn't matter if she's someone I could truly care about as well, does it?"

"And do you care?" the moon lit Aramis's face, showing the concern there. It was not, Athos was certain, concern for Madame Bissette, but all for his friend.

"I could," Porthos repeated. "It would be very easy."

"Yes," was all Aramis said. "And yet —"

"She loves it here." Strange, for Porthos to sound so sombre. "Her life is here. And I am bored even now. It's a good life. But it has nothing I want. And it makes me want her less."

"But you could care for her."

"But I could care for her." Porthos sighed. "I should."

"With half a heart?" Aramis sounded strangely gentle. "An unkindness, that, to a woman of her worth. She would know within months. There are too many years ahead of you both to make them a torment."

There was a long silence, and then Porthos said, almost in a whisper, "She knows, does she not?"

Aramis bent his head, but not before Athos saw his eyes close, and wondered if he was praying. Gratitude, perhaps? That he would not have to be the one to disillusion Porthos of his charms?

"Yes," Aramis said at last. His hand was on Porthos's arm, and Athos knew, now, what that pressure felt like; the steadiness and surety of it; the strange consolation that small grip imparted. "Yes, I think she does."

Porthos nodded his head, his eyes closing for just a moment, "Well, then... I suppose I should enjoy all of benefits of country life while they are on offer, yes?"

"Perhaps so," Aramis allowed. "If that will make things better rather than worse."

"Much better," Porthos chuckled suddenly. "Because I can enjoy the lady without pretence of enjoying talk of sheep and wheat and the idea of recobbling the drive."

"I can indeed admit the attractions," Aramis said dryly. "I myself would suggest solving the problem of the harvest by placing the sheep in with the wheat."

"Sheep can't eat wheat," Porthos said absently, and then shuddered. "Good God, and I know that! How is my life coming to this?"

"Oh, go away," Aramis said on a snort of laughter. "If you won't accept my perfectly reasonable solutions —"

"Poisoning sheep and killing the harvest, yes, you're a true friend —"

"And as a true friend, I advise you to claim what time you can," Aramis prompted.

"Hey?"

"The Captain," Aramis said with audible enjoyment, "awaits our return. Avidly."

Porthos's wince was just as audible. "Ah. About that."

"Please," Aramis's tones were at their silkiest, "don't continue. Just — go."

"I go... " and with a waggle of his eyebrows, Porthos did.

Aramis shook his head with a chuckle, then leaned back against a tree, the moon lighting his face, "You can stop lurking in the shadows now, you know?"

"I wasn't lurking," Athos said, stepping out to join him. "I just did not want to interrupt. That all needed saying and he'd take it best from you."

"Because my skills at — shall we call it confabulation? — are greater?" Aramis sounded a little bitter.

"Because you know how to choose between truths," Athos said, his own coin of honesty. "A gift. I'm praising it."

"I'm overwhelmed by your good opinion, quite dead from ecstacy," Aramis said flatly.

"No, that would be friend Porthos, within a few hours," Athos said, relieved when Aramis smiled faintly at the cheap quip. "You feel guilty. Why? His truth was as great as the one you perceived."

Aramis shook his head. "That is not what concerns me. I told him the truth, yes. Or rather confirmed his. But — there are reasons I dislike games of hazard."

Athos thought about this for a moment. "Ah," he said at last. "You were afraid that you might convince him he had nothing to fear, and so leave him open to being the one broken with. And that, to you —"

"Is no better than a lie, were I to have coerced him into going against his nature for the sake of chivalry."

"But you did not."

"But I did not. And yet — I loathe dicing." Aramis sounded infinitely weary.

"And love politics."

"Porthos's heart is no arena of strategy."

Athos was the one to reach out this time, to mimic the gesture he had now both seen and felt, and place his hand upon Aramis's arm.

"Nor is yours, my friend," he said, as calmly as he could. "Nor is it a purse to throw into some game. You asked me to remember something, should the time come. In return, remember this. Should you ever feel that the stakes are more than you can stand — I will back your coinage with my own."

[ ](http://s48.photobucket.com/albums/f225/Gemeralda/Musketeers/?action=view&current=DIVIDER.png)

They made their own way up to bed shortly there after, the room seeming both larger and smaller in the shadow of night than it did in the daylight. There was also a silence between them, each of them processing their short but earnest conversation in their own way. Aramis was taking a moment for his evening devotions and Athos was... well, having the wine that he had deserted earlier.

It could, however, at least be said that he was pursuing his goal with devotion, if of a rather peculiar nature — or perhaps merely one peculiar to him.

His thoughts, as always, were kept behind obliquity, even from himself — he much preferred to arrive at conclusions through a glass darkly, as it were, letting his final decisions come upon him in sleep or stupor rather than under the bright harshness of a wakeful, sober, and daylight decision.

He wondered if perhaps Aramis's prayers performed the same service — a thin veil between his contemplations and his resulting actions. Athos would have thought such an innate form of concealment essential to a man of Aramis's secretive nature, were it not for the fact that Aramis was too often at war with himself; too often caught between immediacy and consideration, to allow himself to be unaware of his own actions or his thoughts' government at any time.

"Is there any of that left?" Aramis's voice startled him out of his thoughts.

Not waiting for an answer, Aramis merely helped himself, taking and draining Athos's cup in one long slow draught. Prayers were obviously finished for the evening and they were to move on to more secular entertainments. 

"Did that help?"

"Did the wine remove the still stale taste of my earlier conversation from my mouth?" Aramis raised an eyebrow, "No. But a few more might do the trick."

Athos conceded the point with a tilt of his head, which Aramis apparently took for encouragement, refilling the cup and taking a long drink before Athos could even begin to formulate a protest, let alone voice one.

"Has it occurred to you," he asked somewhat waspishly, "that politeness still dictates you use your own cup if you are not, in fact, offered your host's?"

Aramis blinked at him, wholly and fallaciously innocent. "But you are not my host," he said, bland and innocuous.

"No, but it's my cup."

"Well, in terms of the offer of hospitality," Aramis said sententiously, draining the wine for the second time, "it is of course the Madame's cup. But your sense of proprietorship and propriety must, as always, be assumed to be superior to mine."

"Does that mean you're going to go and get your own?" Athos asked, already knowing the answer he was not going to receive.

"Don't be foolish," Aramis said pleasantly, but he did hand the cup back over.

Athos looked down into his now-empty cup, chuckled softly and refilled it, "Ah, well, infusion of Aramis...bound to improve the flavour. Spice and a bit of a sharp bite in the after-taste...that would be you, you know?"

Aramis's eyebrows shot towards his hairline. "Yes, lemon and pepper, I am a positive bouquet garni, I have no doubt." 

Athos probably wasn't imagining the way there seemed to be rather more teeth in his smile than usual, when he finished. It suggested that more than the after-taste in the cup contained the potential for biting.

"No doubt..." Athos agreed with a grin of his own. He was never fearful of taunting the tiger, but perhaps this moment was not the time. "Seriously though, how do we extricate ourselves from... all this."

Dignified withdrawal in the middle of the night would have been his own choice, but since, really he had been the one to put them in the middle of it...well, he probably needed to find something more socially acceptable, and Aramis, if nothing else, was frequently more socially acceptable than he.

"Oh, that's easy," Aramis said with a small shrug. "We have our orders to return. Or rather we shall invent them, since I have no doubt they were implied, in the sense of our Captain not, perhaps, desiring our company, but most certainly demanding it at all times. We must, of course, bow to even his unspoken commands, and shall dutifully ensure Porthos does the same. Porthos will, I have no doubt, be given his _congé_ shortly afterwards, either by letter or by a prolonged and pointed absence and silence, the implications of which cannot be ignored, and the Madame will find some other protector more suited to her less... carnal... tastes."

"And no-one's heart is broken," Athos said dryly.

"And no-one is too inconvenienced," Aramis corrected him. "For as we have ascertained, hearts were never truly involved in this — arrangement."

"Hearts are _always_ involved, my friend," Athos murmured into his cup, "even if it is in a way that reveals an utter lack of love."

"Perhaps you're right," Aramis conceded dryly, once again taking Athos's cup. "But it's important that in this case, it is not going to be in any way painful."

Athos frowned, it was after all his wine that was being taken...again, but was more than willing to agree.

"Do you —" he began, and trailed off into a silence that had nothing to do with either drunkenness or discretion, but rather self-preservation. He had been about to ask _Do you believe that hearts can be broken?_ but since the answer to that was obviously _yes_ , a more pertinent question might have been _Do you believe that other people's hearts, not only your own, can be broken?_ and that might well have earned him a much-deserved punch in his own teeth, simply for asking, and never mind what the answer might be.

Aramis had his occluded and gloomy days as much as Athos did, and the fact that he was more surface-pleasant about them did not alter the fact of their existence.

"Do I?" Aramis enquired warily.

"Want some more wine?" Athos offered feebly, offering the cup.

Aramis peered into its decidedly empty depths, raised the equally empty flagon to the light, and said solemnly, "Thank you. But I think I had it."

"More?" Athos offered. Really, he'd have offered to ride to Paris and get more — anything to keep himself from asking that question. "After all, this will probably be the extent of our leave for some time to come, and if I'm any judge of Treville's attitude, we might as well make the best of it."

Aramis, for one brief and glorious and to be remembered for as long as Athos could manage, looked utterly and completely torn, his carefully cultivated image warring with (if Athos was as good a judge of such things as he was of de Treville's attitude, which was to say excellent) a deep desire to get thoroughly and committedly drunk.

Decision, however, being Aramis's default mental state, the expression was only a brief one before he nodded and said with a surprising degree of fervour, " _Yes_." Then he remembered himself and added just too late not to be amusing, "Please?"

[ ](http://s48.photobucket.com/albums/f225/Gemeralda/Musketeers/?action=view&current=DIVIDER.png)

The next day dawned, as days were unfortunately wont to do in the country, bright and shiny with chirping birds and crowing roosters and the playful bawling of young cattle in the fields...and the groaning of two men who were decidedly hung over.

"Next time," Athos offered, his voice morning-rough, "we let Porthos die...all on his own."

"As long as I don't have to be the one feeling energetic enough to kill him," Aramis said, barely audible over the sounds of the peace and quiet of the countryside at its finest, "that is an admirable plan."

Something in the yard made a sound like an old woman being robbed and murdered, and they both winced.

"On the other hand, I might be convinced to rouse myself enough to kill... whatever that was," Aramis said to his hands.

"The rooster," Porthos said, far too loud and far too cheerful and far too much himself and _right in Athos's ear_ which did not bode well either for his sense of self-preservation nor, in fact, his continuing existence until the end of what was trying very hard to disguise itself as breakfast.

"Yes, the rooster," Aramis agreed with alarming serenity, rising to his feet with a look of glazed purpose.

"No killing the rooster," Athos said dully.

"I fail to see why not."

"Because you have to be charming. It's going to be a bit difficult to accomplish that when you're covered in blood and feathers."

"I really hadn't considered getting that close to it," Aramis muttered, but he sat down again.

Porthos looked between them in some confusion and a great deal of amusement. "I had no idea you were in the mood for over-indulgence," he said to Aramis, who ignored him.

"How _were_ you going to kill it?" Athos asked, ignoring Porthos completely as befitted someone who was completely to blame for everything. "Long-distance garotte?"

Aramis stretched his leg out from under the table and tapped the side of his boot, where doubtlessly more than one knife resided.

"Throwing," he said briefly.

"Ah," said Athos.

"Are you both _still drunk_?" Porthos asked in awe.

"Much preferable to a musket," Athos continued as if no one else had spoken, "nice and quiet."

"That was my major thought," Aramis nodded. The slightly greenish-grey tint that his skin took on led Athos to believe he instantly regretted the movement.

"Are you both going to be able to ride?" Porthos asked. "I suppose I could ask Martine for the use of her carriage..."

"God, no," Aramis groaned. 

He was eyeing the coffee-pot with predatory intent, obviously gathering his resources to simply annex said utensil for himself. Porthos, far more interested in ham and eggs, did not so much as have the chance to begin mourning this rapine before it was an accomplished fact.

"No stamina, the youth of today," Athos said sadly. His own wine might well be four-fifths water, but it was still wine.

"That's because you're a tribute to the art of vinous mummification, old man," Aramis retorted from the depths of his cup. Athos raised his own cup in salute to the hit.

Porthos just shouted for more food. In Athos's ear. Again. Truly, the man desired death more than Aramis had even begun to miserably contemplate when they were roused from an uneasy two-hour slumber by the awakening farm.

Athos was just about to threaten his friend with evisceration, or the removal of his vocal cords...through his ear, when he felt an odd but timid tug on his sleeve. It was Marie, Émile's too-brave sister. Athos watched with disbelief as she climbed from the ground to the bench beside him, and then, amazingly into his lap.

Aramis gave a snort of laughter, "If you were Porthos, I'd say your women are getting younger, but in this case I'm more apt to just say.... _what_?"

"Marie! I'm so sorry, Monsieur Athos," Émile appeared as if by command, but when he tried to remove his sister she wrapped her arms around Athos's neck. "Marie, really, Monsieur is trying to...er... have breakfast?"

He was obviously confused by the lack of food on Athos's plate. "Your eyes are really red. They look like...spoiled eggs."

"I think that's probably too flattering," Porthos said, looking up from his plate and then staring, food forgotten, as he took in the spectacle before him.

"I think it's the most flattering thing anyone's said to him in years," Aramis agreed, rejuvenated and semi-restored by coffee and pure glee.

"Not true, not true, only last week the Captain compared his looks to those of a rusted fish-knife — or was it rabid fishwife, I forget. But. It was certainly flattery, whichever the comparison."

"It was neither, and you're idiots," Athos said, simmering with badly disguised embarrassment and a very much undisguised desire to be anywhere that wasn't near Marie.

He tried to hand her to her brother but the little arms just tightened that much tighter around his neck. "Damn it."

"Really, Athos, language..." Aramis scolded. He plucked a few grapes out of the bowl on the table and held one out to Marie, who immediately climbed down, took the grape and crawled under the table to eat it.

"Sorry, M'sieur. You know, my da says that hay makes his eyes turn red like that. Perhaps yours will be better once you go back to Paris." Émile said helpfully, then scrambled under the table to retrieve his sibling.

"Very doubtful," Aramis opined, and went back to his coffee.

"So," Porthos said with a stretch of his arms that came a good way toward spanning the table, "are we ready to go?"

Aramis blinked at him. "Er," he said, thoroughly and rarely taken aback. "Shouldn't we... say our farewells? To our lovely hostess?"

"Said 'em," Porthos announced through a mouthful of bread. "Hates goodbyes. Nommfnnng."

"Did she really," said Aramis with feigned interest, and then, more irritably, "Porthos, I have told you time and again that I do not speak I Can't be Bothered To Swallow. Try again."

Porthos gulped, loudly and obnoxiously, before repeating, "She's not coming down."

"I might be persuaded that there is a God," Athos said to his wine and water.

"So as soon as your hangovers have worn off, we can go," Porthos nodded, still shovelling food into his mouth at an alarming rate.

"I should be ready to go after this last cup of coffee," Aramis agreed, "but if we wait for Athos, we might be here until after harvest."

"I am not going to have a hangover," Athos announced, and Aramis sighed.

"No, that would imply a degree of sobriety had been attained. I apologise, Porthos. I meant, of course, to say merely that when I have finished this last cup of coffee, I will be ready to depart, and I don't much care what Athos does."

"Neither does Athos," mumbled the man in question.

"Can we just _go_?" Porthos asked, looking like a whipped hound. Aramis sighed.

"Yes," he said simply, and kicked Athos into a semblance of attention. "Up. Move. We're leaving."

"Sing hallelujah and amen," Athos agreed, getting slowly to his feet.

"Selah," said Aramis very dryly, and pushed him out of the door.

[ ](http://s48.photobucket.com/albums/f225/Gemeralda/Musketeers/?action=view&current=DIVIDER.png)

The moon shone brightly on the damp cobblestones of the courtyard, its twin winking merrily from a small puddle that had formed in a low spot not five feet from where they were standing. The earlier rain had, at least, swept away before they had arrived which should have made their duty more pleasant, but somehow just gave them one less thing to hold their attention. Listening to Aramis complain about being wet, wasn't the most interesting thing Athos had ever heard, but at least it was _something_. Now they were simply standing.

"This was all your fault," Aramis ventured in a conversational, rather than an accusatory tone.

"The lack of rain?"

"I think he means the guard duty," Porthos said, picking up a small stone and tossing it into the puddle, apparently thinking that rippling reflected moonlight might somehow be more interesting than calm.

Athos stared between them. "My fault?" he repeated incredulously, "How on God's green earth could this possibly be my fault?"

"Because, my dear," Aramis said in the same mild tones, "when the Captain asks you whether you enjoyed your time away, the sane response would be to pay attention to his tones of light yet decided menace and respond accordingly with an account of your great relief at finding Porthos unharmed, or possibly your great disappointment —"

"Hey!"

"— _not_ to explain to the poor man exactly what you find so distasteful about the countryside, women, small children, and farmyard animals."

"I told him about Athos having egg-eyes," Porthos said reminiscently.

"Yes, thank you for that, so helpful," Aramis agreed.

"But... the countryside..." Athos stated as perfect justification for everything he had said.

"Yes. Quite." Aramis sounded, if not defeated, at least resigned.

"Besides, if Porthos weren't so persistent in taking up with exactly the wrong type of people—"

"Hey!"

"—we wouldn't have needed leave in the first place."

"You do know what you just implied about his choice of friends, correct?" Aramis asked. He sounded less murderous and more amused, though, which Athos had to consider to be an improvement. Unless, that was, he had improved his variations of subtle gradation within his state of permanent homicidal desire, and amusement was merely the latest addition. Athos decided to feign innocence.

"No?" he said tentatively. At least, he intended it to sound tentative. It came across more as thoroughly disturbed.

Apparently, he did not excel at innocence.

"Hmmm," said Aramis doubtfully. Porthos started to laugh.

"I do!" he got out. "I do take up with the wrong sort! I am surrounded by the wrong sort! Look, I am with two of them! The wrong sort, very very wrong — ow, Aramis, was that entirely necessary?" he broke off, rubbing his arm.

"Yes," Aramis said flatly. "Be grateful it was only a closed fist."

Athos involuntarily glanced downwards at the knife-concealing boots, encountered Porthos's gaze as he did the same thing, and shared a wince of fellow-feeling with him.

"Well, yes..." Athos cleared his throat, continuing to address Porthos as his safest option, "so no more taking up with... I mean... Damn, just be more careful. We do worry about you, you know?"

His voice was gruffer than even the tone brought on by drink and damn it, he was far too sober to be making this kind of declaration, and said so. "I am far too sober to be having this conversation."

"And judging from our dear Captain's expression, you are doomed to remain so for the foreseeable future," Aramis concluded.

Athos sighed. "Ah, for the carefree days of wine and youth —"

"And sanity," Aramis agreed cheerfully.

"— and wine," Athos repeated weakly, having lost his train of thought somewhere in the puddle that Porthos was now dipping the toe of his boot in and out of, like a wary child at the seashore. "Porthos, I realise that I am going to regret asking this, but what are you doing?"

"Waiting for a miracle," Porthos said, smiling across at him, and as Athos blinked in confusion, added in kindly explanation, "since it's the day for them, I thought perhaps a little water into wine might not go amiss."

"Well it wouldn't, obviously," Athos agreed, still hopelessly confused, "but —"

"You _worry_ about me," Porthos said with exaggerated delight, ignoring Aramis's muttered "Not that much, believe me." "You worry about me and you care what happens to me, and look, miracles!"

"I think I hate you, actually," Athos said, rubbing his hand over his forehead.

"Oh, you just say that from love."

"Er," said Aramis, "no, he really doesn't. Just pointing that out before someone gets killed."

"But it's nice." Porthos declared, then wrapped his arms around Athos, lifting him entirely off the ground in his enthusiasm. "I worry about you too."

"Put. Me. Down." Athos growled.

Porthos dropped him back to his feet and turned to Aramis.

"If you even think about it—"

"Not even a hair-ruffle?"

"My hat protects me, back, foul fiend!" Aramis struck a pose, and Athos was amazed to see that he was genuinely laughing.

"Woe. I am defeated." Porthos hung his head, and then yanked Aramis in for a very, very brief embrace, letting him go before anything... pointy could be truly considered.

"Ugh," Aramis said without emphasis, dusting himself off. Porthos beamed at him.

"I knew this would happen eventually," Porthos cackled. "We're friends."

"No we're not."

"Liar." Porthos beamed.

"That's probably a proof," Athos pointed out. "You don't normally call your friends liars."

Porthos just reached over and ruffled his hair, "See, good things can come of bad. I'm still going to miss Martine though. The woman just had a way about her…and about me for that matter."

"Oh Lord, save my ears, preserve what remains of my mind, grant me deafness," Aramis moaned.

Porthos sighed exaggeratedly. "But I thought you liked women," he said, injured.

"Yes," Aramis agreed, "and I do. But not, particularly, in mental conjunction with _you_."

Athos snorted. "Amen," he said loudly.

"Selah," Aramis finished automatically.

"You're both vile examples of the human race," Porthos said in a dramatic example of a sulk, wrapping his cloak around himself with a flourish.

And Athos, blissfully ignoring him, felt no sense of responsibility toward him at all, but only a faint, exasperated fondness that was almost easy.

He did not look at Aramis's too-knowing eyes, nor at the puddle that was supposedly the source of miracles. He only felt both more and less than he had in years, and was grateful for it.

Even if it was all his own fault.

 

**FIN**


End file.
